Replay

by Levy, Marc

  “How can I prove that Ortiz is the man hiding behind Ortega?”

  “Comparing photos is always useful—we’ll see what’s left on Marisa’s film roll. But there’s a difference of more than thirty years between the arrogant-looking major in my album and the 74-year-old salesman he’s now become. And a mere likeness won’t be enough for the courts. The best way to get what we want, though it seems impossible to me, would be to unmask him and make him confess. How? I have no idea.”

  “If I start investigating Ortega’s past, we’ll see soon enough if it stands up to scrutiny.”

  “You really are incredibly naive! Believe me, if Ortiz changed his identity, he didn’t do it without help. His existence as Ortega will be perfectly documented, from the school where he supposedly studied to his college degree and all his jobs, including a fake army job.”

  Luisa stood up.

  “Marisa, come and give me a hand in the kitchen,” she ordered.

  Left on his own in the living room, Andrew leafed through the file Luisa had left out. Each page had the photo of a soldier, his rank, the unit to which he belonged, the list of crimes he had committed and—in some cases—the real identity of the child or children he had been given. At the back of the album was a list of five hundred babies whose birth parents had disappeared. Only fifty of the names had the word “identified” next to them.

  Andrew reflected that Luisa would have made a wonderful grandmother if the junta hadn’t deprived her of the possibility of having grandchildren.

  Luisa and Marisa reappeared a few moments later. Marisa hinted to Andrew that her aunt was tired and that it would be a good time for them to leave.

  Andrew thanked Luisa for seeing him and promised to let her know if he found out anything.

  Marisa was tight-lipped when they got back in the car. He could tell from the way she was driving that she was on edge. At a crossroads where a truck refused to give her the right of way, she leaned on the horn and let loose a stream of invective that even Andrew, who spoke fluent Spanish, didn’t fully understand.

  “Did I say something to annoy you?” he asked politely.

  “There’s no need to use that tone with me, Mr. Stilman. I work at a bar. I prefer when people tell things to me straight.”

  “What did your aunt want to tell you without me hearing?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marisa answered.

  “She didn’t ask you to follow her into the kitchen to help her clear away the glasses of lemonade. You left them on the table, and when you came back your hands were empty.”

  “She told me to watch out for you. She said you knew more than you were letting on, and if you were hiding things from her it meant you couldn’t be fully trusted. You didn’t run into me at the bar by chance, did you? You better not lie to me, unless you want to take a taxi back to the hotel and forget about me helping you anymore.”

  “You’re right. I knew your aunt was one of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, and that I’d be able to meet her through you.”

  “So I guess you used me as bait. That’s nice to know. How did you find me?”

  “Your name was in the file I was given, and the place where you work.”

  “Why was my name in that file?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do. A few months ago, my editor Olivia Stern was sent an envelope containing information about Ortiz and a couple of people who had been disappeared. There was a letter accusing Ortiz of taking part in their murder. Your name was there too, and your relationship to Luisa, with a note saying you were someone who could be trusted. Olivia was fascinated by the whole thing. She asked me to track down Ortiz and use his story to expose the dark years of the junta. It’ll be the fortieth anniversary next year—a tragic landmark—and all the newspapers will be picking up on the story. Olivia likes to stay ahead of the competition. I guess that’s why she’s so keen on this investigation.”

  “Who sent that envelope to your editor?”

  “She told me the information came from an anonymous source, but there was sufficient evidence in it for us to take it seriously. And so far it’s all been confirmed. Olivia has her faults, and she can be hard to figure out sometimes, but she takes her job seriously.”

  “Sounds like the two of you are close.”

  “Not especially, no.”

  “I wouldn’t call my boss by his first name.”

  “It’s one of the privileges of age!”

  “She’s younger than you?”

  “By a few years.”

  “Your boss is a woman who’s younger than you? Your ego must have taken quite a beating,” Marisa said, laughing.

  “Could you drive me to the archives your aunt told us about?”

  “If you want me to be your personal chauffeur, you’re going to have to make it worth my while, Mr. Stilman.”

  “And I’m supposed to be the one with an ego problem?”

  Marisa ground to a halt at a gas station. Her Beetle’s exhaust pipe was throwing out a shower of sparks, and the engine had started making deafeningly loud sputtering noises.

  While a mechanic tried to do a makeshift repair job on it—Marisa couldn’t afford a new car—Andrew moved out of earshot and called the office.

  Olivia was in a meeting, but her assistant insisted he hold.

  “What’s the news?” Olivia asked, sounding out of breath, when she came to the phone.

  “Worse than last time.”

  “What is it? I’ve come out of a meeting to take your call.”

  “I need some extra money.”

  “I’m listening,” Olivia said.

  “Two thousand dollars.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “We’ve got to grease some palms to get what we need.”

  “I’ll give you half that amount and not one dollar more for the duration of your trip.”

  “I’ll manage,” replied Andrew, who hadn’t hoped to get even that much.

  “Is that all you have to tell me?”

  “I’m leaving for Córdoba tomorrow. I have every reason to believe our man’s hiding down there.”

  “Do you have proof that it’s really him?”

  “I’m following up a very promising lead.”

  “Call me back as soon as you have anything new—no matter how late it is. Do you have my home number?”

  “It’s in my notebook somewhere.”

  Olivia hung up.

  Andrew was taken by an overwhelming desire to hear the sound of Valerie’s voice, but he didn’t want to disturb her at work. He’d call her that evening.

  The car was ready to go, the mechanic assured them. It could do at least another few hundred miles thanks to his repair job. He had sealed up all the holes and fixed the muffler with new bolts. As Marisa rummaged in her pockets for money to pay him, Andrew handed him fifty dollars. The mechanic thanked him profusely, and even opened the car door for him.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Marisa said as she got behind the wheel.

  “Let’s just call it my contribution to the trip.”

  “Half that amount would have been enough. You got ripped off.”

  “Marisa, I really need your help,” Andrew replied with a smile.

  “Wait, what trip are you talking about?”

  “Córdoba.”

  “You’re even more stubborn than I am. Before you set out on that fool’s errand, I’ve got an address for you. It’s a lot nearer than Córdoba.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Well, I’m heading back home to get changed. I’m working tonight. You’re taking a taxi,” Marisa answered, handing him a piece of paper. “This is a bar where some former Montoneros hang out. When you get there, act humble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yo
u’ll see three men sitting in the back of the room playing cards. Their fourth partner never returned from his stay at ESMA. Every evening they play the same game all over again, like a ritual. Ask them politely if you can sit in the empty spot, offer to buy them a drink—only one round—and make sure you lose a little, out of courtesy. If you’re too lucky, they’ll send you packing. If you play too badly, they’ll throw you out, too.”

  “What do they play?”

  “Poker, with several variations that they’ll explain to you. When you’ve won them over, talk to the bald man with a beard. He’s called Alberto. He’s one of the few survivors of the detention centers and was one of Febres’s victims. Like many survivors, he’s consumed by guilt, and it’s very hard for him to talk about what happened.”

  “Why does he feel guilty?”

  “Because he’s alive while most of his friends are dead.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He’s my uncle.”

  “Luisa’s husband?”

  “Ex-husband. They haven’t spoken for a long time.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “The more I know, the less likely I’ll be to make a faux pas,” Andrew pointed out.

  “She’s devoted her life to tracking down the former criminals, and he’s chosen to forget the whole business. I respect both their choices.”

  “So why would he talk to me?”

  “Because the same blood flows in our veins, and both of us tend to be very stubborn.”

  “Where are your parents, Marisa?”

  “That’s not the right question to ask, Mr. Stilman. The question I ask myself every single day is: who are my real parents? The ones who raised me, or the ones I never knew?”

  Marisa pulled up to the curb and leaned across to open Andrew’s door.

  “You’ll find a taxi at that corner over there. If you don’t get back too late, stop by and see me at the bar. My shift ends around one in the morning.”

  * * *

  The bar looked exactly as Marisa had described it. The decor was untouched by the passage of time, and several successive coats of paint had given the walls the strangest of textures. The only furniture was a handful of wooden tables and chairs. A photograph of Rodolfo Walsh, the journalist and legendary leader of the Montoneros who had been murdered by the junta, hung on the back wall. Alberto was sitting right beneath it. He was bald, and most of his face was hidden by a thick white beard. When Andrew walked over to the table where he was playing with his friends, Alberto looked up and stared at him briefly before turning wordlessly back to the game.

  Andrew followed Marisa’s instructions to the letter, and a few moments later the man sitting on Alberto’s right invited him to join them. Jorge, the man on Alberto’s left, dealt the cards and bet two pesos.

  Andrew called and glanced at his hand. Jorge had dealt him three of a kind and Andrew should have raised, but, recalling Marisa’s advice, he threw his cards facedown on the table. Alberto smiled.

  A new hand was dealt. This time Andrew found he had a royal flush. He folded again and let Alberto take the pot, which amounted to four pesos. The next three rounds went the same way. Alberto suddenly folded before the end of the fourth round, looking Andrew straight in the eye.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I know who you are, why you’re here, and what you want from me. You can stop letting us win by pretending to be an idiot.”

  His two friends roared with laughter. Alberto gave Andrew back his two pesos.

  “Couldn’t you tell we were cheating? Did you really think you were that lucky?”

  “I was starting to suspect something . . . ” Andrew replied.

  “He was starting!” Alberto exclaimed to his friends. “You served us a glass of friendship and that’s all it takes for us to have a conversation, even if we’re not friends yet. So you think you can get your hands on Major Ortiz, do you?”

  “That’s the plan,” Andrew said, putting down his glass of Fernet and Coke.

  “I’m not too happy you’re mixing my niece up in this business. This search you’re undertaking is a dangerous one. But she’s more stubborn than a mule, and I can’t get her to change her mind.”

  “I won’t let her take any risks, I promise you.”

  “Don’t make promises you won’t be able to keep. You have no idea what these men are capable of. If he was here,” Alberto said, pointing to the portrait on the wall above his head, “he could tell you about it. He was a journalist, like you, but he took risks that put his life in danger. They shot him down like a dog. He stood up to them before their bullets mowed him down.”

  Andrew looked at the photograph. There was something charismatic about Walsh. He seemed to be gazing off toward the horizon from behind his glasses. He reminded Andrew of his own father.

  “Did you know him?” Andrew asked.

  “Let the dead rest in peace. Tell me what this article of yours is about.”

  “I haven’t written it yet, and I don’t want to make promises I won’t be able to keep. Ortiz is the linchpin of my article. My editor finds his life story very intriguing.”

  Alberto shrugged.

  “It’s funny how newspapers always find the torturers more interesting than the heroes. I guess the smell of shit sells better than the perfume of roses. As discreet as you’ve been, he’ll be on his guard by now. You’ll never catch him in his lair, and he doesn’t go anywhere unaccompanied.”

  “That’s not very encouraging.”

  “We can fix things so you’re on equal terms.”

  “Fix things how?”

  “Some of my friends are still in good shape, and they’d love to see Ortiz and his stooges brought to justice.”

  “Sorry, I haven’t come here to orchestrate any settling of scores. I just want to question the man.”

  “As you wish. I’ve no doubt he’ll welcome you into his living room and serve you tea while telling you all about his past. And he says he won’t put my niece at risk!” Alberto guffawed, exchanging a look with his fellow poker players.

  He leaned across the table, bringing his face close to Andrew’s.

  “Listen up if you don’t want your trip to be a waste of time for us all, young man. You’ll have to be very convincing to get Ortiz to tell you his secrets. I don’t mean using excessive force—that won’t be necessary. Anyone who did what he did is a coward. When they’re not in a pack, their balls shrink to the size of hazelnuts. All you have to do is intimidate him a little, and he’ll be spilling his story out between sobs. But if you show him you’re scared, he’ll kill you without the slightest compunction and throw what’s left of you to the dogs.”

  “I’ll keep your advice in mind,” Andrew said, preparing to get up.

  “Sit down. I haven’t finished.”

  Andrew was annoyed by the imperious way Marisa’s uncle was talking to him, but he didn’t want to make an enemy of the man, so he obeyed.

  “Luck is on your side,” Alberto told him.

  “Not if the cards are rigged.”

  “I wasn’t talking about our card game. There’s a general strike planned on Tuesday, and all flights will be grounded. Ortiz won’t have any choice but to drive to Buenos Aires to meet his client.”

  As he listened to Alberto, Andrew realized Marisa had been reporting every single one of his moves back to Alberto.

  “Even if he’s traveling with an escort, it’s on that road you stand the best chance of trapping him. If, of course, you let us give you a hand.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want your help,” Andrew said. “But I don’t want any violence.”

  “Who said anything about violence? Funny kind of journalist you are, always thinking with your fists. I think with my head, you know.”

  Andrew looked at him doubtfull
y.

  “I know Route 8 well,” Alberto went on. “I’ve taken it so many times that I could describe the scenery all the way to Córdoba with my eyes closed. The road goes through miles and miles of featureless landscape, and it’s very poorly maintained—there are far too many accidents on it. Marisa’s nearly lost her life on it once, and I don’t want that happening again. Understand this, Mr. Journalist: that man’s friends attacked my niece, and the time when they can get away with something like that is over.

  “A few miles from Gahan, the road splits in two around a large crucifix. There are some silos on the right—you can hide behind them while you’re waiting. My comrades will arrange for Ortiz’s tires to go flat at precisely that spot. With all the junk that falls off passing trucks, they won’t be suspicious.”

  “Okay, what next?”

  “There’s only ever one spare wheel in a car, and if you find yourself in the middle of the night in a place where you can’t get a cell phone signal, what choice do you have apart from walking as far as the nearest village to look for help? Ortiz will send his men and stay in the car.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “A former officer like him never loses his arrogance or the high opinion he has of himself. If he walked through the mud alongside his henchmen, he’d be lowering himself to their level. I could be wrong, but I know a lot of guys like him.”

  “Fine, so Ortiz is alone in the car. How long do we have before his men come back?”

  “Probably a quarter of an hour walking either way, plus the time they’ll need to wake up a mechanic in the middle of the night. You’ll have all the time you need to grill him.”

  “Are you sure he’ll be traveling at night?”

  “Dumesnil is a seven-hour drive from Buenos Aires—another three if there’s heavy traffic. Believe me, he’ll leave after dinner. One man will drive, another will be his bodyguard and the man you presume to be Ortiz will be sleeping peacefully in the back seat. He’ll want to get through the suburbs before daylight, and start driving back as soon as his meeting’s over.”